The Soldier and the Virgin
by EnchiladaDan
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was tired of his damnable nickname, "The Virgin". He thought he had discovered a solution, but now it was out of his hands. Explicit Content.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Sherlock Falls Ill

Sherlock Holmes ran down Baker Street, black wool coat billowing out behind him, stopping with an ungainly halt at 221B. He was home. Rifling through his deep pockets, he found he had forgotten his keys – again. Pressing on the doorbell for John Watson to let him in, he huddled under the doorway, although he was already soaked head to toe. Watson answered quickly, and then looked upon his roommate with consternation: for a genius, he could be quite daft sometimes.

He stepped aside to let the man in, and Sherlock looked even paler than usual as he unwound his scarf, shaky hands picking at his coat buttons. His curly mahogany hair drenched from a midnight stroll in the rain, John eyed the man with impatience; Sherlock was stubborn. He seemed not to care that he faintly shivered as he shrugged off his coat on the way up the stairs. Kicking off his coal-black loafers, he bent down to peel off his soaked dress socks, before plodding over to the washing machine adjoining the kitchen. As John closed the gap between them, he noticed Sherlock's hands – a mottled purple from forgetting his gloves – toss clothing into the machine, his palms stark white, his nails a worrisome blue. He unbuttoned his long-sleeved shirt, murmuring something about John making a cuppa. Sherlock was much paler than usual, John thought, a doctor's concern starting to build as he slowly ambled towards the kitchen. Glancing back to the sinewy fellow undoing his trousers, he noticed his lips and nipples had lost the pale pink tint they usually held, stark white instead, blending almost seamlessly into the rest of his skin. John fetched a nearby thermometer from the cabinet, ran it under the tap, and walked briskly back to the man about to squirm out of his pants. Sherlock noticed John was now standing very close and held out a digital thermometer, ordering brusquely "Open up."

"Oh, don't be daft," Sherlock retorted tossing the crumpled trousers that had been in his hand into the washer. Giving him that very annoying "I-know-what's-good-for-your-health" look, John simply stood there, arm outstretched until Sherlock parted his lips.

When the thing beeped a minute later, John yanked it away, sighing: "You have a fever, you bloody lunatic!"

Sherlock shrugged, turning his back as he pulled down his pants, and after throwing them into the washer asked, barely turning his head, "Need to do any washing?"

Sherlock went past John into the kitchen and set about filling the electric kettle, completely starkers. This was not the first time Sherlock had traipsed about their public space nude, simply because he couldn't be arsed to put on clothes; but John never seemed to get used to it. Sherlock set the kettle down and John strode up to him swiftly, grabbing him roughly by the arm.

As he pulled him to his bedroom, Sherlock trying to wrest his grip the whole way, John just shook his head. "No use trying to fight it, mate. You know damn well that I'm stronger than you are."

Sherlock huffed: "Upper body-wise, perhaps; but I've got you beat on matters of stamina and flexibility." John stopped a moment, to make a point more than anything as he waited to see if Sherlock would figure out how what he had said _sounded_. Sherlock, however, seemed confused and redoubled his efforts to escape.

As John gestured to Sherlock's bed with his chin, he loosened his grip. Sherlock rubbed the spot where John had been holding him, a light red hand-print stretched across his bicep. "I'll have that cuppa now John, thank you."

But John wouldn't be ignored so easily; "You'll get your bloody cuppa when you've told me why you were dashing about in this sodding weather. Until then, you'll stay in bed until your fever breaks." He began to move towards Sherlock's bathroom, then spun on his heel, adding, "And hold off on a shower for now. The last thing we need is 'London's Premiere Consulting Detective' passing out and cracking that brilliant head of his." Sherlock nodded; he knew not to provoke John when he was in 'Army Medic' mode. He drew a glass of water, and returned with aspirin in his hand. "Here," he barked, willing him to take the proffered medicine. He did and crawled into the bed, feeling exhausted for the first time in days. He heard the kettle go off, and went to make himself a cuppa.

Watson tried to steady his nerves by sipping slowly, but it did little good. He's seen Sherlock naked before - but the frailty of his flat-mate just now, so different from his usual self-important mania, made distress well in his chest. "I'll just have to look after him," he grumbled as he fell asleep on the couch, head pointed towards Holmes' door.

He awoke the next morning, and immediately put on the kettle. Thermometer held out like a switch blade in his hand, he rapped on the door; no answer. He opened the door, surprised to find the other man still asleep; most unusual. Watson checked his forehead – still hot. He took his temp, surprised it had scarcely fallen. He sighed, fetching more aspirin and water from the bathroom. As he turned towards the bed, he heard his "patient" sputter, now awake. "John, I'd appreciate if you didn't insert things in my orifices while I'm sleeping." Again, he just stared, waiting for the other man to realize how that had _sounded_. And yet again, it flew completely over the other's head.

He indicated the water and aspirin, and they were taken almost mechanically. "Your fever's not yet broken," Watson reported, and he nodded. He felt out of sorts and lay back down, dozing off again as Watson went to make a cuppa. Setting an alarm on his phone, he began to tidy the kitchen, his tea cooling on the windowsill.

Having accomplished his goal without disturbing the table of "experiments", he finished the wash, and began a go at the living room. As he fished a throw pillow out of the fireplace, the alarm went off. He tossed the soot-stained mess in the bin, waking his "patient" this time, before taking his temperature. He brought him a plate of biscuits along with his glass of water, muttering, "Maybe to hospital …"

"NO!" he shouted, tangling in covers as he attempted to get away.

"I just meant if you're not any better by tomorrow. Better not to risk brain damage."

"I do not do well in hospitals, John."

"Then dream about glaciers. Or whatever, to get that fever down."

He cleared up in a way that would not offend his flat-mate's sensibilities, then sat sipping a cuppa as his alarm went off again. As he walked into the room, he saw the other man sitting up in bed, deep in thought. Another glass of water was drawn and he sat down on the bed, offering him the thermometer. "You want to know the driving force behind my irrational decision to walk in the rain last night."

"That would be helpful, you sodding idiot."

"Really John, your bedside manner could use some work. To answer the question, I was quite upset. Agitated, in fact – couldn't sit still, obviously." He put the thermometer in his mouth.

"Blimey … what does that even _mean_, to someone like you?" The thermometer beeped, and he took it, reporting, "Down – better."

Sherlock glanced away, fiddling with the fringe on his Afghan. "You mean a man who, simply because he is brilliant, has been attributed special 'powers'?"

Steeling his voice, he responded: "No, a man who goes out ofhis way to prove to everyone _just how different he is _from them."

"And thus, the distinction of 'good different' from 'bad different' is realized."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, it's all fine and good to be thought of as super-human by one's associates, but I genuinely thought I'd reached the age where all this 'freak' nonsense would end."

"The _age_? Sherlock, you're twenty-seven. And just ignore Sally; she's only mad you outted her and Anderson to everyone."

"And _you're_ thirty John, but I meant metaphorically. For the record, I couldn't give a flying fig about Donovan, or Anderson, for that matter."

John opened his mouth to speak, but quickly closed it, frowning. "_Who_, then? You're never like this."

He waved his hand impatiently. "Just my nemesis, John. Do keep up."

"Nemesis, not arch-enemy. So obviously not Mycroft."

"_Obviously_. How could he have known … There's no denying his correctness, but when she relayed the damnable 'nickname', there was only certainty there. Is his information network more complete than mine?" He was musing to himself now, barely regarding the perplexed man. He gasped: "Did he manage to bug the flat?!"

"No … Not possible. There's no way."

"Maybe I had a bad experience, was put off…"

"MORIARTY!" Watson had cracked it, and looked quite pleased with himself.

"Yes, _Moriarty_," Holmes spat, as though sickened by the mere thought.

"So, to sum up, you ran into a torrential downpour because Moriarty called you 'The Virgin'?"

"As always, John, you never fail to oversimplify. I ran into the 'torrential downpour' – you've been watching the weather channel lately – because I was agitated, as previously stated."

"And you were agitated because you were upset."

"Circular reasoning, but yes; I _was_ upset. Now … I'm resolute."

"Resolute?"

"I have to remedy the situation, John. I have to undo whatever hold he thinks he has on me by shedding that status."

"You want to lose your virginity."

"No. I'm _going_ to lose it. Want isn't a factor – it's been decided."

John considered this last statement momentarily. "When did you decide this?"

"When I was on my walk; I've got two candidates, but each has his or her own flaws. Originally, I had three, but then I recalled her previous partner."

"Wait, _his or hers_? And you mean Sally? For sleeping with Anderson?"

"If I'm going to offer myself to someone, _it sure as hell isn't going to be someone Anderson got to first_."

"Right. Well then, who are your two remaining 'candidates'?"

"One, the obvious choice, is Molly. She's discreet, is suitably attractive with the proper lipstick, and adores me."

"You said each had flaws. What's hers?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip for a second and replied, "Her scent."

John raised an eyebrow and said "If you don't like her perfume, I'm sure she'd stop wearing it for you."

He laughed softly: "Her perfume? She doesn't _wear_ perfume. No, it's something else … It's not the smell of formaldehyde – I love that. And her shampoo is lovely. No, it's _beyond_ that, _beneath_ that. It's her pheromones – they don't agree with me."

"How can you possibly-"

"I have a keener sense of smell than most, John. I thought you knew that. Hmm … But I understand, when it comes to sexual intercourse, there's no escaping that sort of thing."

John had to give him that. "Well it seems you've ruled out Molly. Who's the other 'candidate'?"

"That one," he said, letting out a deep breath, "is trickier. I'm inclined to believe I haven't a shot."

"Seems a tad hasty, don't you think? I'm sure there are a lot of people who would be more than eager for the opportunity."

"Possibly …" Sherlock took a sip from his water glass, and met the man's eyes. "The other person … is _you_, John Watson."

"_ME?! Why me_?" John sputtered, raking his fingers through his hair.

"Your military background has left you in excellent shape; but for those jumpers, you're quite attractive. You have a great deal of sexual experience; and as a doctor, you're oath-bound to be both health-conscious and gentle with others' bodies."

"But I'm a man! Who's to say if that even _counts_?"

"As with everything else, I've done my research. It counts."

B-but you _want_ to be with a man?"

"I don't know what I want, clearly, but who's to say I wouldn't enjoy it as much as being with a woman? I see nothing _wrong_ with the male body, per se."

"Sherlock, I don't know …"

"And there's your flaw: I surmised you might be too stubbornly heterosexual to even consider it."

John got up, and headed for the door. He paused in the doorway, turning his head to say, "Give me some time to think it over."

Sherlock eyed him, astonished. "Let me think it over: when I've decided, I'll let you know my answer. BUT, in the meantime, I want you to consider additional 'candidates'." John left to fix himself a cuppa, as Sherlock's brain began to work on every possible scenario.

Watson sat in the living room in the red brocade armchair, eyes unfocused, staring at the spades wallpaper. What had he just said? What was he getting himself into? He'd recovered a bit at the end, by telling Holmes to consider others. But there was _something_ about him, the great Sherlock Holmes, that made John want to jump at every new opportunity, savor every new experience that came his way. At Angelo's, he'd said, "It's fine. It's ALL fine."

He had meant that, hadn't he? But then again, being for gay rights didn't necessitate engaging in _those_ activities. After all, it was _too_ different, wasn't it? No, his calm doctor's rationale thought, it really wasn't; except for a few minor differences, the ACT was more or less the same. He wasn't exactly a stranger to alternative sexual acts: he'd had nights with costumes and role-play; days with whipped cream and silk scarves; afternoons in public places and evenings with toys … No, John H. Watson was not a stranger to _unusual_ sex.

The things that got him going, he realized, were acts regardless to gender: passionate kisses; having his cock tongued like an ice pop; feeling his lover tremble like a leaf against him …

He sipped his tea, his stomach tensing with anxiety. Another few hours passed this way, the man wrapped in a tight ball; it was time to check on Sherlock.

Sherlock was relieved to find John wasn't treating him any differently (at least consciously) as he considered his decision, and the doctor seemed doubly relieved the fever had completely broken. Handing him a glass of water anyway, he spoke: "Right then. You're free to shower, get dressed, all that. I'll order the take away."

The former patient scrambled out of bed, making a beeline for his bathroom, and as he passed, John could make out the faint scent of an unwashed Sherlock … it was so different than his usual amalgam of soap and tea tree oil deodorant. He had sweated the fever out – something Sherlock had seemed, until this point, incapable of even doing. He smelled musky, like petrichor and hickory, and John drank in the heady scent.

When Sherlock emerged from his bathroom, dripping and still naked, he eyed John quizzically: "I er, forgot to ask what sort of take-away you wanted." Sherlock smirked; oh, this _was_ an interesting development …

"Chinese," he responded, and John exited the room hastily.

14


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: John's Scientific Inquiry

A few days passed; the detective promptly returned to his rambunctious self. John took a few shifts as there were nothing but minor queries in the way of cases (although his flat-mate grew exceedingly agitated at this). A few days more; he turned the flat upside-down looking for bugs, attempted to play the violin but mumbled something about the "unreliability of new cat gut string manufacturers", and even popped down to the local A&P to buy biscuits and nicotine patches. He laid on the sofa, pensive, that great mind ricocheting between hope and despair.

As he came home from an early shift, he was amazed to find a frantic Sherlock _cleaning_. John knew this opportunity may never arise again so said nothing, making a straight shot for the tea kettle. As he lugged around a rubbish sack of aborted experiments and tossed crumpled papers into the roaring fireplace, he hastily thanked his flat-mate for the proffered tea. John, weary from work, trudged towards his room for a shower.

Later that night, he padded across the wooden floor, towel-drying his hair, clad only in his pajama bottoms. The dark blue cotton trousers hung low on his hips, fastened in the front by two buttons. He paused at Sherlock's open door, the other man vacuuming in only a pair of burgundy boxer shorts. He yelled over the vacuum, "In or out, John?"

He shrugged, asking loudly, "Need any help then?"

"If you like," he shouted back impatiently, John traipsing into the adjoining bathroom. His own towel in one hand, he used the other to pile wet towels and worn pants on top, then threw the lot in the hamper. Having finished vacuuming, Sherlock sat on the bed panting, as John took a seat opposite him in the lone armchair.

He thought for a moment before he spoke: "Sherlock, would you consider me a scientist?"

"Of a sort, yes."

"Then I propose an experiment." He drew a deep breath, Sherlock's eyes shining like a kid's on Christmas. "One which, I hope will lead me to an answer to your … proposal. It's two parts: first part is information gathering; the second part is, uhm, initial contact."

"Initial contact? This isn't some sort of reference to that horrid science fiction program you watch, is it?"

John scoffed, suddenly annoyed. "NO. And 'Star Trek' is a classic, I'll have you know."

"What, then, do you mean by initial contact?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, scarcely believing his flat-mate could be so daft: "Physical contact, Sherlock."

"Oh … Very well then."

"Right." John tried his damnedest to keep his seriousness intact. "Have you been snogged?"

Sherlock let out a petulant laugh; "Yes, of course."

"_Elaborate_." John shot him a why-do-I-bother look.

"A girl, age thirteen. A boy, age seventeen."

"A boy?"

"Young man, then. The whole of my sexual experiences have been distributed evenly across both genders." He gave a self-satisfied smile, knowing he'd thoroughly surprised the man.

He could feel his throat tighten as he asked the next question, now knowing he wouldn't be working with a blank slate: "What about … fondling?"

"I've never fondled anyone. But there have been attempts, by others, to fondle me."

He suddenly wondered if Sherlock's inexperience came not only from narcissism, but prudishness as well. "Attempts? What, didn't you let them?"

"Nothing as ridiculous as that, John. Really. The boy from before started to, over my pants. But he got too nervous and stopped. When I was nineteen, another girl set to work, but I was quite drunk and therefore couldn't hold an erection." He seemed not to care about any of these past instances; in fact, he looked positively bored.

John considered this for a moment, trying to remember the word. "What about frottage?" At this, he seemed to perk up a bit.

"My senior formal – a girl slow danced with me and it got a bit heated … And later, after my career began; I was twenty-four, and I met a young man at a gay club. He took me back to his place, and we grinded atop each other, but he came quickly and I left, having to take care of myself later."

His brow wrinkled: "Do you do that often? 'Take care' of yourself, I mean?" John struggled to keep his face placid, the information almost too much to even process.

"Occasionally, as the need arises. Although you didn't ask, I know you wondered: the club was for a case, and he was a potential suspect. As soon as I saw his socks, I knew I had the wrong man."

"Of course," John replied, not wanting to get sidetracked by the socks bit. "Oral sex?"

"I'm afraid frottage exhausts my sexual history," he returned, sounding weary.

'Blimey, he may as well be a teenager.' "Um, anything about me, then?" John felt his mouth going dry, but Sherlock just smiled.

"Nothing I don't already know, John."

'Bloody smart-ass,' he thought.

5


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Sherlock's Mind: 5986487848395757; Body: 1.

"Right - The second part. Are you ready?" John settled next to him on the bed, as Sherlock nodded. "If you don't like anything, tell me to stop. Got it?"

His brows knit tensely, until Sherlock's mouth parted in his amused half-smile: "Of course. But please do be careful – I tend towards easy bruising."

John cocked his head, a smirk on his face: "Sure." He took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back. "Close your eyes," he requested. John scooted closer as Sherlock obliged; Sherlock's turned his knees towards John, apprehension causing him to grip the sheets as he waited. He leaned in close, pressing his lips against pale pink ones. Sherlock moved his lips slowly, John parting his into the kiss.

John pulled away, and cleared his throat: "All right?" Sherlock's eyelids fluttered open, acknowledging as he chewed on his lower lip subconsciously. John kissed Sherlock forcefully this time; he gave into it, reaching out to touch John's shoulder. He responded by wrapping an arm around Sherlock's back, his other hand resting on his knee. He moved his hand down over John's chest, stroking his chest hair. Leaning in closer, the hand on Sherlock's knee now moved up, inward; he parted his legs, aching to be touched.

One more move, and John would be on top of him; his heart beat faster at the thought. Opening his eyes, he gazed at Sherlock's face, softly kissing the dimples under the right side of his lower lip. That same half-smile appeared; he licked John's lips playfully, darting his tongue inside. His response was to caress the tongue languidly with his own, his hand continuing its path along the inside of Sherlock's thigh. He heard the other's breath quicken, and as he ran his fingers slowly over the silk-sheathed bulge, Sherlock shuddered faintly. John moved down from his lips to the pale neck below, raining kisses on the soft flesh. Sherlock could feel himself harden completely as the fingers brushed the fabric, searching for the fly button; he slanted back so John could reach the underside of his chin, and John climbed on the bed. "Get up here," John entreated, and he joined him, wriggling as he undid the button.

John's lips pursed as he had a sudden misgiving: "Is it all right if I touch you?"

"_Please_," Sherlock panted, and John felt inside his pants to grab his hard length. He began to stroke, testing different patterns until he found the one that made Sherlock moan weakly. He cleared his head enough to bring his hand up, caressing John through his pajama bottoms. John's breathing became ragged and shallow, as Sherlock tugged on the drawstrings of the PJs. His long, slender fingers deftly undid the knot and he slid the bottoms down, slowly revealing John Watson in all his glory: John's member curved upward, beige shaft contrasting with a deep pink head; slightly larger than average, and looking bigger yet by the carefully trimmed hair at the base, one shade darker than that on his head. John stopped, rolling onto the side of the bed to yank his bottoms off completely. He reached over, taking Sherlock's pants by the waistband and tugged, stripping him just as quickly.

He gave him a tender, comforting kiss, before leaning over him again. He kissed his chest, lazily tonguing the pale pink nipples, Sherlock's back arching upward. Then, resting on his knees and the elbow of his good shoulder, he reached the other arm downward, gripping Sherlock's solid member once again.

He smattered kisses back up, to his neck, then the underside of his chin. That magnificent low-but-clear voice gave another shuddering moan, and John felt his cock twitch. He looked at Sherlock's slowly blushing face, and noticed his eyes had darkened, the usually-pale green (like the moss in Cardiff's Ffawr) now tinged with grey and positively bottle green. He'd always found it incredibly sexy when a lover's eyes did that; like they had a passion setting that only _he_ knew how to turn on. John kissed him aggressively, their tongues lapping at each other. Sherlock reached up, grabbing John in those beautiful slim fingers, trying to meet his eyes for guidance as he stroked.

Sherlock's nipples were now completely hard, a dark pink that mimicked the stain of his kiss-abused lips. A hand ran up his lithe white arm, pinning his wrist to the mattress. John stopped stroking to reach up, grabbing and pinning his other wrist before he knelt down lower, so that their cocks brushed. He groaned, head swimming with pleasure, and lay on top of Sherlock. He shuddered underneath him, grinding his hips up into John.

His lips grazing a pale earlobe, he nuzzled into beautiful dark curls, whispering, "The ex – experiment is almost done, except for this …" His back sloped to make room for his hand, as he released one of Sherlock's wrists to take both of their cocks in his hand. Sherlock had pre-cum beaded at the tip, and as John's thumb ran it across both heads, Sherlock gasped, his free hand wrapping around the man's back.

He began to stroke both of their cocks, Sherlock sobbing out moans beneath him. He swallowed, trying to speak: "John … I'm about to, you're going to make me-" He moaned hoarsely, and with a ragged shout, Sherlock shot into John's hand.

John wiped his hand on his nearby pajama pants, and increased his pace. Primal grunts issuing forth, he soon followed, coming hard onto Sherlock's stomach. They collapsed in a sticky mess, John reaching for his PJs to clean the other man up as he murmured, "Sorry." He got up carried the sullied bottoms to the laundry room.

As he returned, he sat next to the lump under the covers, absentmindedly asking, "You all right?" When he was met with silence, he turned to look at the other man, and found him already asleep. He sighed and went to his own room. He lay on his bed but did not sleep – too much to think about.

5


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: This fic has not been "Brit-picked" by anyone but myself; any errors are this uninformed American's.

This chapter contains a minor o.c. It also contains internalized homophobia that is religiously-motivated. Please note that this reflects a belief that _some_ people have about homosexuality, and is not meant to be a representative example of the views of the Catholic church. I personally have nothing against religion. Please note also that John Watson's views on bisexuality do not reflect my own, but are conscious choices on the part of the character to rationalize the situation. Lastly, although it is true that John Watson is violating doctor-patient confidentiality, it lends to the plot and is not supposed to be an accurate representation of medical practice in the U.K.

Trigger warning: implied / referenced self-harm. Please do yourself a favor and skip this chapter if this triggers / upsets you.

Chapter 4: What People Do

The next morning, John sat reading the news on his laptop, his brow wrinkled as he slowly sipped his tea. Clad only in his thin blue robe, Sherlock yawned lazily as he walked into the kitchen, pouring himself a cuppa. He sat across from the man, sipping idly as John continued to scowl at the computer screen. "Should we talk about last night?" he drawled, raising an eyebrow.

"Hmm? Why?" John didn't look up, just spoke between sips of tea.

"It's what people _do_, isn't it? Talk about it when the dynamics of their relationship change?"

His lips a thin line, he thought a moment before speaking: "We're still flat-mates, still partners with work … really, I don't think it has." He sighed. "I'm just doing you a favor – that's _all_," he trailed off, his voice straining earnestly on the last word. It was clear that this is what John wanted it to be so, _for once_, Sherlock let it alone.

John finished his tea, and closed his laptop; "But, as an endpoint, provided we can get you 'up to speed' first, I'm not opposed to 'ridding you of your virginity', as you put it."

"The experiment – experiments, rather – were successful then. Good. My search for additional candidates has proven most unfruitful."

"Now that you've been properly snogged, frotted and fondled, there are only a few more things to cross off the list," he replied, lightly touching his laptop as he stood.

"_The list_? Are you using my sexual history, or lack thereof, as a checklist?"

"Only a mental one. It could be said, after all, that sex is 'the final frontier'."

"The science - fiction bollocks again? What compels you to watch that show? It's American!" Sherlock huffed.

"I think their accent sounds friendly, actually. Besides, it's not like the production value for 'Doctor Who' was much better back then."

"Telly on the internet has ruined the common man," Sherlock sighed. With that, John picked up his laptop and left the kitchen; 'time to get ready for work', he thought.

As the young man disrobed, Dr. Watson sighed; "Jesus …"

The shaggy blonde refused to meet his eyes, standing uncomfortably in his boxers and sock feet. "All right – on the table, then."

Watson snapped on a pair of latex gloves as the sullen twenty-some sat on the paper-lined table, ineffectively covering his thighs with his hands. Not that the gesture made the damnedest bit of difference; he had fresh cuts on his upper arms, too.

"Well, you're not a minor, so I can't tell your parents or social services. But unless I get a very good explanation for this, I'm putting the papers through to have you sectioned."

The young man's eyebrows flew up in alarm, but his response was a begrudging non-sequitur: "I don't see why I have to strip for an S.T.D. screening, anyway."

Watson looked weary, having rattled off the same spiel three times today already: "Hospital policy - anyone who comes to the clinic for an S.T.D. screening is automatically checked for signs of sexual abuse." The boy rolled his eyes and the doctor frowned, as he glanced down at his chart.

"Couldn't you have done that by just asking me to lose my pants?"

He picked up a urinalysis cup and handed it to the boy. "And miss the tale-tell bruising you could've been hiding? Not a chance." He gestured to the adjoining door: "Bathroom's over there."

As soon as the boy was out of his room, John whipped out his phone. _Be home late. Complicated. Order Thai?_

He tucked it away and the boy came out, looking annoyed. "Sit on the table. I've got to take your vitals." He listened to the boy's heart, and then looked a bit quizzically at the cuff. "Stay here – I'm going to get an O2 machine."

He wheeled a machine into the room soon after, and held up the finger clip. "Hold out the index finger on your dominant hand." The boy held out his right pointer finger.

"None of that nonsense - you're a leftie." The boy dropped his hand, and looked at the doctor distrustfully. He sighed, explaining: "If you didn't want me to know you were left-handed, you should have washed the ink stain off the side of your left palm when you used the bathroom. That and the greater force of the cuts on your right arm equal leftie." He held out his left pointer finger, still eyeing the doctor with apprehension. He clamped it on and fiddled with the buttons on the machine, before turning back to the boy. "Benjamin, is it? I need to examine your arms."

He turned his arms over slowly, eyeing the scabbing cuts for signs of infection. He examined his neck, back, and chest next, when the machine beeped. He removed the clip, muttering, "Not anemic, then … All right, lay down please. I need to examine your legs." He felt the boy's muscles clench as he touched the boy's calf. "Would you prefer a female doctor?" He asked his gaze suddenly soft with concern.

"No, no … It's fine." Benjamin refused to meet his eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line. As Watson's hands moved to the boy's thigh, however, he began to tremble.

"I just need to check the cuts. You're okay." The young man nodded, and the doctor was as quick as he could be. He stood back, making a few notes on the chart as he asked, "Lose your pants, please." He started, but obeyed. The boy sat on the table, covering his privates, and started again when John advanced. "This is an S.T.D. examination. I know you may be uncomfortable, but to do this properly, I _do_ need to examine your genitals."

The boy slowly moved his hands and Watson bent down, doing his cursory examination, stating, "Nothing looks out of the ordinary so far." He stood up and took a step back, taking a deep breath before speaking: "Try to relax. I'm going to need you to turn around, hands and knees on the table."

Benjamin blanched, sputtering, "What?! Why?"

Doctor Watson walked to the cabinet, binning his gloves before reaching for two packages in the drawer. He wrote a note on his chart as he answered, "Does no one read the forms? The hospital policy's examination includes a rape check, for all S.T.D. screenings."

He washed his hands and re-gloved, as the boy wavered: "I wasn't raped!"

"That means this will be over much quicker then, doesn't it? The fact of the matter, however, is I have to check you for signs of trauma: anal tearing or bleeding, or prostatic inflammation. I'll try to be brief."

The boy, still looking humiliated, complied and John worked efficiently. As he walked towards the bin, he spoke: "You can get dressed now." He disposed of his gloves and washed his hands, then walked back over to the boy, who was pulling his belt tightly. "We'll have to wait for the labs, but my initial impression is that you're clean."

The boy looked up at him, and John studied his face, taking in the dark circles, the sallow skin. "How long has it been since you slept?"

"T - Three days."

"Since you've eaten?"

"Last night."

"Tell me about the cutting. Why do you do it?"

"It makes things … quiet."

"Quiet?" He reiterated, maintaining eye contact.

"My thoughts race, my heart pounds. It's not right and I'm not right, but it _all_ goes still – the feelings, the panic, the urges – when I cut."

John pressed his lips into a thin line. "The urges?"

"To lash out at others, to … do things that aren't … right."

"So you fix it? By harming yourself, by inflicting pain on your body which - by the way - did nothing to you?"

"How would you know that? After last week, I –" He stopped abruptly, clapping a hand over his mouth.

"What happened last week?"

The boy shook his head, tying his laces.

"Remember, you have to convince me not to section you."

"It … it liked it, when he touched me. I – I told him not to, but my body responded …"

"Who is 'he'?"

"Nathaniel. He is – was – my best mate. We had a few brews and he shoved his hand down my pants. I … _responded_." He spit the last word, his actions disgusting him beyond compare.

John was torn between dealing with the matter delicately and being the same gruff doctor he'd been earlier. "So let me see if I've got this: you've been self-injuring because you're ashamed of getting an erection after a bloke touched you. Is that right?"

"It's not _just_ that! I don't want to be a fucking faggot!" He looked panicked: "I'm Catholic, okay? It's not right. I'm … not right." His voice, which had been a roar of protest, quieted with each sentence, until he practically whispered the last sentence.

John rubbed the bridge of his nose, easing his knitted brows: "Okay well as a doctor, I'm going to let you know how it _really_ is. It seems, under the influence, your body had a physical reaction before your brain had time to process what was happening. As long as you're sexually attracted to girls, you're not queer. So bin the razor, for God's sake."

He took a breath, and continued: "I want to see you in two weeks for a follow-up. We'll go over your labs, and if I see any more self-harm, it will be my duty as a doctor to have you sectioned. As far as any 'thoughts' go, that's just your brain trying to understand what's happened, since you haven't dealt with it properly. Is that clear, Benjamin?"

He nodded, eyes fixed on his fingernails as he asked, "So I'm not queer?"

"Not unless you want to be."

He looked extremely relieved and nodded in assent: "Two weeks, then."

"But why did you lie to him, John? You know as well as I do the lad can't choose which gender excites him." Sherlock shot him an annoyed glance and John looked up from his Pad Thai.

"He more or less can if he likes both. And, if he does turn out to be queer, I'm sure he'll appreciate the doctor who lied to him so he didn't kill himself over it. The kid was severely depressed; what was I supposed to do, Sherlock? Tell him he's gay, and then section him? I'm sure he doesn't need another reason to hate blokes right now."

"Even with the religious affectation, I still can't understand the severely flawed logic that would make him think self-mutilation is a _proper_ way to deal with any problem."

"He turned twenty years old two days ago. The 'teenage mentality' doesn't go away that quickly."

Sherlock sighed; "The whole thing is preposterous. Who cares if he likes blokes?" John nodded, deep in thought. "And that bit about his body overriding his brain is extremely unlikely, even if he was intoxicated."

"Could happen," he replied with a shrug.

"Theoretically, yes. In practice, not so much."

John stared at the wall, contemplating the events of the day, eventually falling asleep on the chair.

8


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Sherlock has no Idea What he's Doing

He woke late the next day, noticing it was noon. He fidgeted in the kitchen until he gathered the courage to speak. Rain beating against the windows loudly, John asked as casually as anything, "How'd you like to learn how to perform fellatio?"

Sherlock looked up from his microscope: "Right now, you mean?"

He shrugged; "The weather's lousy, we haven't a case and … I want to see your learning curve."

His eyes narrowed on John as he stood, asking "Was that innuendo?"

"What?! That barely makes sense."

"Your room this time," he demanded, moving from behind the kitchen table.

John locked the door behind them, his heartbeat in his throat as he walked up to the other man. He pulled him close, Sherlock trembling slightly as he pressed their lips together. The taller man melted into it, his hands fumbling towards John's belt buckle. He managed the buckle but his fingers slipped from the button, and he pulled back, swearing.

Concerned, John asked, "You all right there, mate?" He flexed his fingers and nodded. He snapped open the button, and said, "When you're ready."

He nodded and led John over to the bed by the hem of his tee. He yanked at the scruff of the shirt and he shed it quickly, John ruffling his hair into place after the sudden divestment. He quickly worked on the buttons of his silk shirt. The other man felt his cheeks grow hot, and he gritted his teeth. "I haven't any idea how to go about this." It wasn't that Sherlock was embarrassed by the lack of knowledge; he just hated admitting it. The man brushed the fabric off the sinewy shoulders and grabbed his hand, pulling him to sitting on the bed.

"Would you rather I told you what to do? Or just interrupt you if you've got it wrong?" He ran his lips along Sherlock's jaw-line, and he seemed to relax considerably. He reached for John's zipper: as the metal parted, the swell in his black pants came into view. He tugged on the jeans and the man lost them quickly, his pulse racing.

"As this is my first attempt, I think I would be better off if instructed." He stood looking down at himself, still uneasy, and asked, "Do I take off my clothes as well?"

"If you like. Whatever's most comfortable for you, Sherlock," he offered, scooting to the edge of the bed. He nodded, wriggling out of his trousers, clad now in only a pair of amethyst boxers. He knelt in front of John, and looked expectantly up at him through his long eyelashes.

He nodded: "Stroke me through my pants. _Please_ …" he added, voice heavily emphasizing his lust. He wrapped a long hand around his straining erection, and despite his clumsiness, John exhaled sharply. He arched his hips up saying, "Ah – all right. Pull them off …"

Gingerly, he began to remove them, having very little experience with briefs. Now that he was up-close to it, he noticed it was bigger than he previously surmised, and he felt a ball of trepidation form in his stomach.

"Now take my cock in your hand, and just gently stroke it." Sherlock took a deep breath to steady his nerves, John reaching a hand down to caress his cheek. "It's okay – you can do this."

He did it, John instructing, "And run your thumb along the head on the up-stroke." It took a few minutes but he built up a rhythm. "Good …" he started, breathing heavily, "Now use your other hand to fondle my bollocks."

As the brunette complied, he looked down at the mess of curls below him, and he wanted to pull it. "N – Now kiss up my shaft, and tongue the underside of the head."

Sherlock ran his lips up his cock, and as his tongue licked John, he moaned. His tongue swiping over the man's frenulum, he noted the slight salt taste of his skin; the heat radiating towards his mouth; and he marveled at the marble-like smoothness of the head, noticing the small pitting on the flesh of his shaft. "Take the head in your mouth and start sucking _gently_," he directed, voice hitching on the last word. He began to suck and John uttered a low sigh. "Work your mouth down as far as you can go, a – and …" He moaned weakly. A deep breath and he continued: "And run your tongue along my shaft."

As he worked his way down, John's legs began to tremble, and he lapped at the base, still gently pulling his bollocks. "Oh …" His breath was becoming ragged: "Sherlock, don't f-force yourself. If you gag, pull … oh … pull back."

He stopped for a moment to speak: "John, I'm fine. Just let me make you cum."

With that, he exhaled harshly, cool air hitting John's spit-slicked skin, and he shuddered. Sherlock dove back onto it taking long, slow licks of the throbbing head before moving down, relaxing his lips as John's cock filled his mouth. He began to move a little faster, attempting to hold the suction as his lips pressed firmly over it. He felt it grow harder, and his gaze fixated on the base, anticipating the little pulses that would indicate he was close.

His own breathing sped up, knowing he'd have to hold it soon. With three closely-spaced "warning" pulses, John bit his fist, murmuring "_Oh god … Fuck … Yes_," and came.

As carefully as he could, Sherlock lapped the head with his tongue as he drew off, swallowing with no small amount of difficulty.

"You … didn't have to do that," John panted, once again stroking his cheek. Sherlock cleared his throat, gesturing for the water glass on John's bedside table impatiently. After emptying the glass, he said simply, "Less mess."

He chuckled at this explanation; "I would've told you … But thank you."

Sherlock stood up: "Well? How did I do?"

He smiled wide, incredulous the question was even being asked. "Bloody amazing! I didn't tell you how to do half of that stuff, and you had me _completely_ undone."

"Well John, I am a quick study and this thing exists called the internet."

"Wait – then why did you say you didn't know how to go about it?"

"Because I wanted to know how _you_ wanted me to go about it," he answered, his eyes adding, "Obviously."

He cleared his throat: "Right then. I suppose I should do you?"

Sherlock refused to meet John's eyes as he asked, "Mind if I sit, though? I have trouble – maintaining – when standing."

John gestured to his bed; "Stand, sit, lie – do as you like."

He sat on the bed for a moment before lying down. "Like this then, if it's all right?"

John eyed his groin for a moment, prefacing, "I probably won't be very good at this."

"You could be rubbish, and I wouldn't know the difference."

The man sighed and climbed on top of him, straddling his legs. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sherlock," he muttered, smirking in spite of his tone. He leaned down and kissed him before asking, "Lose the pants though, yeah?"

John slid off him as he pushed his boxers down and kicked out of them. Naked and apprehensive he nodded, and the man climbed back atop his legs. He kissed down his neck, chest and stomach, hot breath hitting pale skin. He paused to eye the rapidly – hardening member. 'Deep – throating' was obviously out of the question, John noted, taking a moment to stare before he began: Sherlock's cock was larger than his in length (5 cm more?) and almost as large girth-wise. It was fairly pale like the rest of his body, but for the pink blush of the head. However, unlike John's – which curved up near his body – Sherlock was a hard, completely straight line down. John licked his lips.

'But what he said is true … He has no basis for comparison.' He relaxed a little with that thought. He took a deep breath, bracing himself on an arm and lowered down, holding the base with his other hand. Sherlock felt John lapping at the base; slow, careful licks at first, followed by a kiss to the head. After a few small licks to the underside of the head, he took it into his mouth slowly, trying to work his lips around the damned thing. He began to pant as the man's lips met their halfway mark, whispering, "Oh, John …"

His mouth firmly on Sherlock's cock, his hand travelled down, squeezing his bollocks. John pulled up to the head momentarily, swirling his tongue before swallowing the length once more, this time lower than before. Sherlock gave a throaty moan, legs shaking as he resisted the urge to thrust up into John's suddenly-very-fuckable mouth. As he moved up and down, he increased his suction, challenging himself to take a little more on each downward stroke. "Nnnngghhh …" Sherlock moaned, his cock pulsing around the tight ring of John's lips. When the man found the right spot with his tongue, he cried urgently, "John!"

He came up for air, his hand stroking instead. "What? Did I hurt you?" He looked down at his hand and stilled it, in case he had.

Cheeks glowing against stark white skin, he responded breathlessly, "No … Just a warning … I'm going to cum soon."

"Just say 'Now' when you can't hold back anymore." He licked his lips as Sherlock nodded, resuming heavy suction and tonguing towards the base.

He moved faster, and soon after he heard in a near-shout, "_NOW!_"

John moved back just in time, covering the head with his hand as Sherlock thrust against it. Spurting into his hand, he moaned low: "_Oh … John, amazing … Oh …_" With each sighed breath, a bit more trickled out, and he opened his eyes, fixing them on John as his body gave a few final jerks. When it seemed to ebb, he squeezed from the base up, beads of cum gathering on the head. Using his thumb to smear them over the slit, he broke eye contact for long enough to notice Sherlock feebly grasping at the air, code for "I can't take anymore."

He loved the ability to turn Sherlock into an incoherent mess; looking down at the spent man, the clear idea of actually fucking Sherlock began to form in his mind. He leaned over, pulling some tissue out of his bedside table to clean him off. He settled down next to the other man, and soon fell asleep.

When he woke, Sherlock was nuzzled against his arm, smiling softly in his sleep. John nudged him: "Sherlock, wake up." His eyes popped open and he turned to look at John. "So, was I rubbish?"

He smirked, replying, "No, you were fantastic. Like everything else of this nature, you appear to have a talent."

John grinned, positively smug as he asked, "Would you like to stay in my bed tonight?"

"Yes of course," he replied as though someone had asked whether he was listening, but he curled up nonetheless, John spooning his long frame.

John's morning wood pressed into the small of Sherlock's back and without so much as a stir from the man, Sherlock turned over. He scooted down, nestling into him until their naked flesh pressed together. John opened his eyes, yawning, looking adorably bug-eyed as he looked down: "Right – we never got dressed." Pressing his palm into the man's arm, Sherlock ground into him. "Sit up – I'll take care of you," he said, adding, "Scoot forward." As he sat behind him kissing the pale nape, he reached forward to take Sherlock in his hand.

"Now watch." He looked down, John rubbing his hand up and down his cock. The rhythm had Sherlock groaning with pleasure, and as he leaned back, he felt John's hardness pressing into his back. The feeling excited him further, as John whispered in his ear: "Sometime soon, I'm going to take you to bed and fuck you. Tell me what you want, so I'll be ready when that time comes." He wasn't sure _he_ even knew what he wanted.

"I …"

"If you don't tell me, I'm going to stop," he replied, his hand flagging.

"No," Sherlock whimpered, "_Please don't stop …_"

Still going excruciatingly slow, he asked again: "What do you want?"

"I want you to lead me into your room, so Mrs. Hudson won't hear us," he rambled, words spilling out fast now as John's hand regained momentum. "I want you to snog me full on and undress me. I want … to undress you."

"Go on," John urged.

Blushing furiously, he blurted, "I want to suck you off and swallow it all down …"

Sherlock could feel John's breath heavy at his ear as he gulped, saying, "Yes, what else?"

His breath began to hitch: "I want to be teased, for you to touch me all over. I want you to stroke me, j – just like now …" John kissed along his shoulder, and he continued, speaking quickly: "I want you to make me cum so hard that I can't move afterwards." He turned his head to John, and their lips met.

He could tell Sherlock was very close, and he loved the idea of that silky voice being its owner's own undoing. _"Oh! Oh … John, fuck …"_

He sobbed out moans as he came into John's hand, thrusting up into it. He let Sherlock shudder against him a moment longer, then used his other hand to fiddle for tissues, tossing them at him. He leaned a slack body back against John, panting.

His erection still ached painfully for touch and he said in a low voice, "Turn around." He settled back against the headboard as Sherlock turned, spreading his legs. "Now take care of me."

12


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Some Things the Great Detective Just Can't Deduce

A week later, John reclined on the sofa, laptop balanced on his stomach: "Sherlock."

Scribbling something in a notebook labeled Abstracts, he replied, "Hmm?"

"I need your input – come over here, would you?"

"Just book-mark the gay porn and I'll look at it later," he answered, frowning down at what he'd just written.

"It isn't – well … not exactly, anyway. It's more like a guide, and there are six positions here. Discounting the standing ones, that still leaves four …"

The other man got up and peered down at the screen. "Which one is the normal one?"

John pointed: a slim young man on his hands and knees, with a larger, hairier man pulling his rear to his hips. "No, that's no good …"

"How about this?" He scrolled the screen down; a man had ahold of another's leg, each on their sides; their heads were turned towards each other, about to kiss.

Sherlock's cheeks flushed: "I … need to be able to look in your eyes." He looked away; "Trust thing," he mumbled and John reached up to grab his hanging hand.

He gestured to the screen: a man kneeling over another, in push-up position; the one underneath had his back braced with a pillow, his legs wrapped around the hips of the one on top. "Yes, that's sufficient," he responded.

John smirked: "You know that's missionary style, right?"

"Problem?"

"No … I just didn't know that you didn't know that."

"Well, there's obviously quite a bit I don't know about this," he said, taking his hand to adjust his shirt hem. Sherlock went back to his notebook, and John decided to update his blog for the first time in a week.

Their last encounter had been eleven days ago: whether John was actually planning something was debatable but the waiting made Sherlock anxious, all the same. He paced the flat, fiddling with the tea as he waited for the man's shift to end. He met him a few minutes later with a cuppa, the doctor cocking his head at the unexpected offering but saying, "Cheers."

He sat in the red brocade chair, rubbing the fabric on the arm absentmindedly with one hand as he sipped his tea. After a few minutes in silence, he spoke: "Had my follow-up with the troubled boy this afternoon. He's stopped. He even took the prescription I gave him for scar cream."

Holmes sat on the sofa, his own tea untouched as he replied, "Never let it be said that the good Doctor Watson fails to get results." He was perched stiffly on the middle cushion, eyes darting around the room, contemplating possible caches for his fags.

"Not that this result is guaranteed. I still had to lie, which is never good. But at least I threw some referrals at him before he bolted. Which … it looks like _you're_ about to do. You're agitated."

His hands, formerly steepled under his chin, flew out as he started to gesture wildly at the air: "You're the veritable _definition_ of an 'open book', to me at least. Despite this, I cannot deduce when you intend to shag me."

Finishing his cuppa he stood and replied, "Consider tonight foreplay," and left the room.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7: No Going Back Now

Later that night John appeared at Sherlock's doorway, and the other man gestured him in. He quickly walked up to Sherlock, and kissed his neck passionately. "Keep it down if you can. I think I heard Mrs. Hudson stirring about," he warned and undid the tie on his robe.

Taking in the sight of his otherwise – naked body before meeting his lips, John pressed a hand against his chest and when the kissed ended, pushed him back onto the bed. He loved how vulnerable Sherlock looked, sprawled on the bed in nothing but that silk robe, breathing hard.

Fighting to control the predatory urge welling in him, he continued, "Lose the robe if you want to keep it and get under the covers. I'll be right back."

Sherlock nodded and he turned on his heel, breath shaky as he went to fetch things from his room. A few minutes later when he had his head right he returned, a bottle of lube in hand. He shut the door and strode to the bed, setting the bottle down on the nightstand before peeling off his t-shirt. He climbed under the covers, next to a nervous Sherlock and issued him a hungry kiss, before instructing, "Lay on your back."

Sherlock rested flat on his back, legs splayed. "Almost," he said, flinging the covers off of his naked body. "Bend your knees, feet flat on the bed." As the other man complied, he sat back on his haunches, just able to make out the curvature of his slim butt. He scooted closer, grabbing Sherlock's thigh with one hand and the bottle with the other. He wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked slowly, as he popped open the bottle with his other thumb. He paused to pour a small amount into one hand and gripped Sherlock firmly. His breath sped up as John quickened his pace.

He paused to apply more lube to his first two fingers, and said, "Just relax. I promise I'll make you feel good." He scooted closer, kissing Sherlock's neck as he breathed, "Now bring your legs to your chest a bit … let the weight fall on your thighs." He threw the lube on the bed and pressing a digit against Sherlock he assured, "Don't worry – I won't hurt you."

As he circled his entrance, kissing his shoulder, Sherlock said, "John, if we're not going to, then why are you-" He ended abruptly as John's other hand resumed stroking him.

"I'm going to try to find your prostate in this position, since I'll need to know for later." He cleared his throat, and then continued: "I'll be gentle." He assented, trying his best to relax. "Okay, keep your breathing deep. Tell me if I'm hurting you."

With that, John began to push a finger in and heard a sharp intake of breath. "Alright?"

"Just not used to it. Kind of burn-y." He dripped more lube down before reinserting.

"Any better?" He nodded and John angled upward, pushing farther in. He stroked from the inside, keeping his hand still while his other worked Sherlock's cock expertly. Once John heard a gasp from him, he knew he had found it. As he applied pressure to the spot, Sherlock began to tremble. His hand moved to the base of his cock, forming a ring and holding it there. "No, not yet," he pleaded. "I want to see how much you can take."

He leaned forward, kissing Sherlock fiercely. "You need to be used to this feeling." He worked in the second finger, and then moved his hand again. He lightly stroked his prostate, and he moaned throatily. He probed, his fingers drumming a very slow staccato pattern, as his fingertips brushed the sensitive spot. His hand sped up and Sherlock bucked up into it.

As John sped up, he said breathily, "_Please, John_… D-Don't stop me this time." He could see the pleading look in Sherlock's eyes, could feel him shaking. He panted "_Oh, God. John!_"

He came so forcefully he shook, as John removed his fingers from his body. He lay there gasping, barely able to move.

"Good?" John asked, eyes focused on that lovely face.

"Very," Sherlock replied, smiling.

John smiled and washed his hands vigorously in the bathroom. "I'll let you get a shower, and I'll clean up here."

Sherlock thanked him and walked on shaky legs. John tidied and when Sherlock walked out naked, hair glistening, it was all he could do not to jump him then and there. His cock twitched, as an image of bending Sherlock over the bed swam into his view. He shook his head but he could feel himself hardening as he said, "I didn't know if you wanted me to sleep in your bed tonight."

"Always," he replied, closing the distance between them.

"Then you're going to have to convince me." He smirked, and knelt in front of John on the bed…

Another four days passed, John sleeping in Sherlock's bed with him at night, but nothing more. That next morning, Sherlock began to pace the living room, frenetic. John stumbled in; "I'll make tea," he murmured.

As he busied himself in the kitchen, Sherlock started tossing throw pillows about. John emerged with the tea, and eyed him with annoyance. "Just because they're called 'throw pillows' doesn't mean you should _actually_ throw them."

Sherlock flounced onto the sofa, screaming, "_BORED!_"

"I'm sure something will turn up. But in the meantime, no more holes in the wall – I can't afford another rent increase."

"Are you frightened, John?"

"Sorry?"

"Frightened. Anxious. Nervous about sleeping with me."

John cocked his head to the side, and then rubbed his face with his hand slowly. "Yes, okay, I am anxious and nervous. But I wouldn't say I'm frightened."

"But something is holding you back."

"I'm waiting for the time to be _right_, Sherlock."

"Horrid idea – we could get a case."

"I want it to be right – _for you_."

"Although you are trying to emotionally prime me for what I am sure is just a simple physical experience, my patience grows thin. I am fond of you John, yes, but 'bringing me up to speed' seems more like you postponing another girlfriend."

John put his teacup down: "So that's it, then? You think I am delaying 'following through' on your request _so I don't have to get a date_? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?"

"The only alternative is that you're terrified of being with a man and have no intention of following through."

John was getting more annoyed by the second. "Sherlock, you should know by now that I'm a man of my word. And I know that you … need this." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John pre-empted him; "You need to _do_ this, rather." He nodded, reaching for his tea.

"I need to get some things sorted," John said and quickly retreated to his room.

Sherlock heard a lot of banging about and John started the shower soon after. He left the flat for more tea and came back some hours later, when the rain started to hit. He stood looking out onto Baker Street, hair damp but no worse for the wear.

Tea was made and John eyed Sherlock from the dining table. "Fetch a shower before you get another fever," John suggested worriedly. Sherlock took the proffered tea, and eyed John warily. He narrowed his eyes, a sudden thought striking him: "Are you worried I'm trying to make you my boyfriend?"

Sherlock smirked coolly: "'Worried' isn't the right word, but I had considered the possibility."

"Well, you needn't worry about it; I've no intention of 'putting a round peg into a square hole' or however it goes."

"You say you're a doctor, but statements like that make me think otherwise."

John's forehead rumpled; "I didn't mean it like that! It's a _saying_ – I won't try to make you something you aren't."

"Good," Sherlock replied, absently.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8: John Caves

John stood, and he held out his hand. Sherlock placed his hands in his, and John pulled him to standing. John tugged on his hand, leading him to his bedroom. Just outside the door, he asked, "Sherlock, would you like to go to bed with me?"

"_God, yes,_" he replied, and they walked through the door. Once inside, he turned towards Sherlock, closing the small distance between them. He reached past to lock the door, then grabbed Sherlock's hand, and pinned his wrist above him. With his other hand on the back of his neck, he tilted Sherlock's face down and crushed their lips together, his kiss desperately searching.

"Are you sure?" He asked, running his fingers through his silky curls.

As he pulled John tight to him with his free hand, he murmured, "Of course."

John tightened his grip on Sherlock's wrist, his fingers lightly scratching at his scalp. He tried to communicate everything he was feeling via mouth, and as Sherlock kissed back they both grew savage, probing deep with tongues and biting each other's lips. Sherlock's free hand tugged at the jumper and the shirt underneath, freeing it from his jeans. He pulled hard on the jumper, and John freed him to shed it. His thin t-shirt pressed against the soft grey silk of Sherlock's shirt, and he grabbed the pinned wrist roughly, nipping at his exposed neck.

Sherlock shuddered, his free hand reaching under the hem of his t-shirt to his belt buckle. John's hand moved from Sherlock's hair to his hand as he whispered, "Not yet," in his ear.

He backed up and turned halfway, eyes travelling to the bed. Sherlock followed his gaze and they rushed towards it, John pulling his arm the entire way. John sat, his hands now pulling at the scruff of his tee until his torso and chest slowly emerged into sight, followed by his shoulders, arms, and head. He backed up onto the bed, and Sherlock joined, crawling next to the man that had been the cause for such heated thoughts lately.

He ran his hands through sandy blonde hair, aggressively kissing the man who ran his short, square hands up and down his body. John slowly undid the buttons on the other man's shirt, his tongue caressing Sherlock's as his fingertips brushed his chest. He felt for Sherlock's belt buckle, undoing it and the fly of his trousers, pinning Sherlock down with his legs. Sherlock leaned forward and undid John's belt, running his hand along the zippered bulge. He snapped the button and unzipped them, tugging at the back pockets of his jeans to pull them down. John rolled to the side to yank off Sherlock's trousers before casting his own jeans aside.

"Lose the socks and shirt," John requested, his heart speeding up as Sherlock shrugged off the grey shirt, the smooth fabric running down his arms. Now clad in only a pair of silk boxers that matched the recently discarded shirt, he eyed John lustily. His muscular frame, naked but for a pair of bright red cotton pants, leaned close to Sherlock, arms brushing arms as John leaned into him again.

John pulled Sherlock's pants off, his hands slowly brushing the skin as his cock came into view. He stroked the entire length slowly, carefully working his bollocks with his other hand. Sherlock shuddered, his legs beginning to tremble as the speed increased, John's gaze fixed on his face. He met his eyes, John's pupils blown, eyes a darker blue than he'd ever seen them. A smirk flitted across his face when the other man moaned, and as his eyes moved over the prone virgin before him, he licked his lips, mind fighting for control.

Sherlock gripped the sheets, fingers rolling along the fabric. As John bent his head to make his way down, Sherlock gripped his chin, stopping him. "No, not that."

He cleared his throat, putting his other hand over John's to slow him. "With what we plan on doing tonight … that would be too much …" His voice trailed off at the end, as he lifted his hand to let him continue.

Sherlock's cock twitched in his hand, and a sharp intake of breath told John what was coming. Uttering a low, throaty moan, he saw his vision blur. Hands white from gripping the bed sheets fiercely, he thrust up into his hand: "_Oh, John … I – I'm_ _cumming!_" He spent into his hand, his breath thick as moans ebbed from his throat. He angled his chin downward, John coming up to kiss his cheek. He lay there panting while John rummaged through his bedside drawer. He tossed a few tissues at him and produced a bottle of lube, setting it down with a light thunk.

"John, how long is your refractory period?"

"Umm … Fifteen minutes, I think?"

Sherlock's fingers danced over red cotton, feeling him through the material before he grabbed the length. John felt a shiver run down his core as a stroke was initiated. The taller man moved to straddle his legs, tugging off the cumbersome garment. Without another word, he bent down and brought his lips to John's cock. He tongued the shaft in earnest, eliciting groans from the man. He relaxed his throat as much as he could, John bucking his hips up into his mouth. Grabbing his hips to still him, Sherlock soon managed to tongue his head feverishly as well.

His breath deep and heavy, he moaned out, "_Sh – Sherlock …_ _Oh, I'm close_ _…_"

Taking this as a sign to suck harder, Sherlock saw the warning pulses and John released into his mouth. Sherlock swallowed hard, and he moaned hoarsely. A few minutes later, when he was able to manage more than just heavy breathing, John uttered, "Jesus Christ, that was amazing …"

He smiled; "I'll stick with 'Sherlock', thank you." He climbed up John's body to rest beside him.

"Lay on your stomach for a bit," John requested. He did as asked and was rewarded with lips at the nape of his neck. He climbed onto Sherlock's legs, running strong hands along his shoulders. From there, he kissed a line between his shoulder blades, lips ghosting slowly down. He laid his hands on Sherlock's alabaster skin, turning the muscles to putty with a touch. His hands traversed farther down, working those magic hands along the curve of his butt, and his legs.

"Turn over," John intoned in a low voice, and straddled his legs as he worked on his chest and arms. "Better?" He asked, and Sherlock nodded lazily. He moved aside to work his hands up his legs, slowing as he reached the other man's thighs. He worked as much tension as he could from Sherlock's quads, and heard his breath quicken.

"This is the last time I'm going to ask: are you _sure_ you want this?"

"_Positive_," he replied, pupils blown, his eyes that same bottle green.

John's smirk slowly worked into a full smile, as he ran his eyes over his body lustily. Their mouths crushed together possessively, John's tongue forcing its way into his mouth. Sherlock leaned over him, braced on one arm, moving down to lightly suck on John's neck. This issued forth a slow moan, as Sherlock moved to straddle John, his fingers mapping John's body: a hand carded fingers through John's hair, moving to the back of his neck; his other hand ran along his shoulder, the tips of his fingers exploring the old bullet wound; his hands now working in tandem, his nails slowly scratched slow delicious friction against John's back; he arced the pads of his fingertips over his hipbones. He felt the soft hair on his thighs, before reaching up to cup the man's buttocks. John's thin gasp echoed in Sherlock's ears, and he bent down for another passionate kiss.

John took this opportunity to grab Sherlock tight, and flipped them over. He ran his lips down that graceful neck, nipping just above the collarbone. His mouth moved down, his lips descending on Sherlock's nipples. He lightly sucked the small buds, which grew harder as he peeked his tongue out to give them a lick. John dragged his lips down his stomach, inching down with every noise the other man made. As a tongue ran along the hollow of his hipbone, Sherlock felt himself harden. Making his way down the other's thigh, he watched the hardening cock jerk, but didn't touch it, instead making his way to Sherlock's knees. John spread his thighs wide, kissing up his inner thighs.

He arched his pelvis, willing John to touch it. John grabbed the moving hips to still them, and then repeated the move on his other thigh. Sherlock had asked John to tease him, and it seemed he fully intended to do so.

He kissed back up his stomach, and gently sucked on a spot just under Sherlock's chin. John, crouched low over his form, nearly lost his balance as his hand was grabbed hard, pulling it towards their groins. "Oy! Careful …" John snapped, yanking his hand away and leaning back on his legs to stabilize himself. He squared his jaw, his eyes showing annoyance as he looked down at Sherlock's face, whose eyes screamed with need.

Running his palms along his sides, with a sly smirk he stated: "I want to hear you say it." He ran his hands up the man's arms, then down his chest and stomach.

"… Okay. Please – please touch me, John."

"Say it …" he coaxed, as Sherlock's breath hitched.

"Touch my …" His face warmed, color staining his cheeks; "Touch my cock, John. _Please_ …" His voice shook with the last syllable, and John lay a hand along the length, giving it a good stroke. Small moans soon filled his ears, as Sherlock thrust his hips up, eyelids fluttering as he mouthed nonsense into the pillow. Feeling the incredible hardness in his hand, his cock twitched as an unsure hand gripped him. As Sherlock stroked, he saw his length grow rigid, feeling the slight ache that accompanied it.

John reached for the lube and leant back slightly, Sherlock now not able to reach as he popped open the bottle with his left thumb. He moved his hand from Sherlock's cock and applied a generous amount to his right index finger. He closed the bottle and tossed it on the bed, moving so he was sitting between Sherlock's legs. His left hand grabbed Sherlock's thigh to pull him closer, and he began to stroke him again with that hand.

"Are you comfortable?" John asked and he nodded at the question, mouth suddenly dry.

John leaned over him kissing him roughly before whispering in his ear, "Just relax …"

He drew back and circled the lubed finger against Sherlock's entrance. He drew a deep breath, and waited for the other man to do the same. As he exhaled, Sherlock felt him push forward, and a small gasp escaped his lips; John stroked faster to distract him.

The finger probed, finding Sherlock's prostate in moments. His hands pressed flat against the bed, and when asked, "Can you handle more?" Sherlock could only gasp in reply. He nodded vigorously, his skin practically buzzing.

He quickly lubed his middle finger, again gently circling outside. As he pushed in a slow hiss of breath drew out, Sherlock roughly gripping his arm. John pushed further in, moving slowly but stroking his prostate occasionally to keep him from protesting.

Green eyes met blue, as he drawled lustily, "_More _…"

After a quick lubing to three digits, John's stacked fingers pressed into his entrance with some difficulty. He breathed deeply, allowing John's fingers to coax further in. Now fully enveloped in his passage, he gently pressed his fingertips against his prostate, and Sherlock's cock jerked in response. In a deliciously slow pattern, John worked the fingers in and out until he grew accustomed to the intrusion.

Working the fingers faster, John's hand flagged; Sherlock protested by thrusting into his hand. He re-lubed and pressed back in, his prostate being stroked with a whisper-like touch. Sherlock shuddered, as John focused on working him open.

He attempted to clear his throat, but it still came out thick and low: "All right – I'm ready." He sat up, leaning against his elbows as he stared John down.

John slowly withdrew, using his other hand to pop the lube open. He poured it into his hand, slicking up his still – aching cock. He shuddered as his hand moved, his entire length throbbing. After slickening Sherlock's entrance, he reached into the bedside dresser for tissues.

With dry hands, John pulled Sherlock close and he breathed deep, attempting to relax himself. He lined his cock up and looked at Sherlock, who nodded back. With that, John slowly thrust into the tight hole. Sherlock blinked rapidly to clear his watering eyes, as John buried it to the base.

He leaned close, stating in a low voice, "I won't move until you tell me to." Sherlock concentrated on relaxing, and nodded gratefully. He shifted, balancing on his good arm, as Sherlock wrapped his legs around his hips. Sherlock reached up and gripped him tightly, his fingernails pressing into John's back.

As Sherlock's hands ran down his sides to rest on his hips, he gazed up at John and said, "Go."

John pulled back, before slowly thrusting in again. He tried several angles until he heard the tell-tale gasp beneath him. Though he tried to revel in the glacial pace, the intense heat and incredible tightness of Sherlock drove John mad with lust. Arching his back to create some room for his hand, he stroked his cock, while his tip brushed against Sherlock's prostate.

The burning subsiding, Sherlock took his face in his hands, their eyes locked as he said, "I'm fine, John. Now give me everything you've got."

He felt his cock twitch in the tight passage, and he buried his face in Sherlock's neck, his teeth scraping against his shoulder. His shuddering breath blew hot air against the pale skin, and John's hand worked faster, as his hips ground deep into him. Sherlock writhed underneath, his prostate being stroked with nearly every one of John's thrusts.

John's breath hitched as his hips rutted against Sherlock's body, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in to the base. His hips jerked as he pulled out when Sherlock ground up to meet him, his breath shallow. His hands moved to John's back, his nails scratching light red lines down the skin, as he drew a sharp intake of breath.

His eyes glassy, still unaccustomed to the feeling, Sherlock blinked rapidly, refusing to meet his eyes. John slowed, as he asked, "Do you need me to stop?"

He wrapped his legs tighter around John, and steeled his gaze: "God, no," he replied, and breathed deep. As his body relaxed, he dug his heel into John's buttock, urging him on. A throaty moan passed his lips, his thoughts growing fuzzy with pleasure.

He moved both hands, grabbing Sherlock's arms for leverage as he thrust harder, a lusty groan jostling from his lips. Sherlock's breathing was deep, punctuated by the odd shudder as John thrust with abandon.

"I'm going to _cum_," Sherlock stated quickly, voice hitching on the last word. At the sound of that voice, his cock twitched, another shudder coming from beneath him.

"_I'm cumming!_" He panted roughly as his passage tightened, his lithe frame shaking; his cock jerked in John's hand, releasing. Sobbing out moans, he came forcefully: "_Yes … John …_" His hands gripped John tightly, nails digging into his back, as John's eyes watered. He released John and leaned against his elbows, his eyes popping open as the pleasurable shocks coursed through his body. He licked his lips, meeting John's eyes as he growled, "_Cum inside of me, John …_"

To have the dirty request issued in that silky voice put John over the edge, his pace slowing. His thighs quivering, his pace flagged to nearly a standstill. He groaned gruffly, shooting hard into his passage. "_Oh … Sherlock … fuck …_" He moaned as Sherlock rocked against him, feeling his flow ebb. Face blissful as he slowly withdrew, he collapsed beside him on the bed.

Turning towards him, he noticed Sherlock lay very still. Heaving hard, John scarcely heard him utter, "It's very hot …"

John grabbed his hand and squeezed it as he asked, "What is?"

"The sensation. It's very strange and almost hurts."

"I didn't –"

"No, you didn't harm me." He looked away; "Your cum is burning inside of me, but I can't move my legs."

He turned back to look at John; his eyes had lightened to their usual shade, and his lashes were wet with tears. As his half smile formed, his cheeks seemed lit from within. He began giggling, repeating, "I can't feel my legs!"

As he sat up, John began to giggle too. He kissed Sherlock's jutting cheekbone, and got up from the bed.

"I'm getting a shower and a cuppa. Need anything, as you can't walk, obviously?"

As John walked towards the bathroom, Sherlock threw a pillow at him: "Cuppa tea John, thank you. Two sugars."


	9. Chapter 9

Author's note: This epilogue is optional.

_**Epilogue**_

Sherlock lay on the sofa, hands steepled under his chin as he stared up at the ceiling, wrapped in his thin blue robe. John sat in the armchair nearby, patiently awaiting an answer. "Hmm?" Sherlock asked, seeming to come back to reality for the first time in an hour.

"So, did you arrive at the conclusion you thought you would? Did having sex answer some great question for you? How to best Moriarty, or whatever?"

He turned his head, raising an eyebrow at John. "It was never about _besting_ Moriarty. It was just that he _not_ have some sort of upper hand on me." He took a deep breath. "However, as to conclusions reached, I have few. The act was physical, dare I say visceral, but the emotional component surprised me." He held up a hand, as John looked likely to interrupt; "_Yes_, I know you warned me and I do understand your process – now – but I'm conflicted about the whole thing. I'd like to say 'that was that' and go on, but I find myself intrigued anew."

John leaned forward, crossing his legs. "Oh?"

"Not about sex; it's always sort of fascinated me from afar. No, I'm intrigued by you, John Watson. It's occurring to me, prior to our sexual escapades, my view of you was rather two – dimensional. But … _experiencing_ you in a different way has me amending my mental representation."

He cleared his throat, and his next sentence was lower: "You are now, including myself, the most complete person I have ever known."

John sat otherwise motionless, as his mouth pursed into a look of deep thought for the man. Sherlock was quiet for several minutes, before his expression became one of genuine curiosity. "Should I thank you for sleeping with me?"

John cracked a smile; "If you like, but I don't think it's necessary. If anything, I should probably thank you – I took your virginity. That and …" He looked down at the floor, near laughter: "For helping me get laid for the first time in the last three months."

As their eyes met, they broke into laughter, and John was the first to recover. "Well, now what?"

"What? You've changed your mind about something?"

"I just meant what happens now, with us? I know after my first time, I sort of … _latched on_ to the other person."

"As previously mentioned, I'm fond of you, John. Now, maybe more so. But, if for no other reason than not to risk endangering you, I do not wish to enter into any sort of romantic relationship. I shan't pine for you, nor declare my love, if that is what you were worried about."

He sat up, hands curled on his knees, voice tentative: "As for the physical aspect, I do not mind it; it proves a nice distraction between cases. But if that was a one-off, a noble gesture for my sake, I understand and accept that. In sum, I wish you to stay my partner for the work we do, my friend … my only friend."

John cleared his throat, eyebrows raised as he asked, "So, are you saying you want to be friends with benefits?"

"Is that the current colloquialism? Then yes."

John braced his hands on his knees, and took a deep breath. "All right, it's settled. Two flat-mates, friends, who occasionally bugger each other." He snickered, and Sherlock cocked an interested eyebrow at his phrasing. "But _not a word_ of this to anyone. If anything, I'm bisexual."

Incredulously Sherlock replied, "I know that!"

John smirked and stood up, clasping his hands together. "Sorted. Toast and a cuppa? I've got more jam."

"_Absolutely._"

-Fin-

Author's note: Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think!


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